


Home for Christmas

by MaddyHughes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Tree, Domestic Fluff, First Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...A cannibal nipping at your nose...Will and Hannibal's first Christmas together.





	Home for Christmas

‘Do you think we should have a tree?’ Hannibal asks one morning mid-December, with an elaborate casualness that doesn’t fool Will for a second. Because Will knows that Hannibal knows that Will has only had a Christmas tree about five times in his life. Twice when he was a kid and they stayed put long enough to buy some lights and have a place to plug them in. Once when he was in shared accommodation in college and his roommates bought this fake silver thing that played _White Christmas_ in tinny metallic notes. And twice…with Molly and Wally in their cabin, a big misshapen tree from their own property strung with popcorn and cranberries and homemade ornaments, topped with a silver angel, a tree that meant only one thing and that was home.

That didn’t last, either.

‘No,’ Will says. ‘No tree.’

‘All right,’ says Hannibal, and changes the subject. But the thought stays with Will all that day, and the next. Not just the thought of the tree itself, but the thoughts about why Will said no.

This house is a bolt hole. They’re here, healing from injuries, hiding from the world and the law. They are, to all intents and purposes, dead. And if Will and Hannibal are slowly finding each other, understanding a truth that has to do with minds and bodies and hearts, if they share space and meals and thoughts and a bed, that doesn’t make this house a home.

This isn’t home. This is…whatever it is. Not home. Because if this house is home to Will, then that means that Hannibal is home to Will. And that is…

Well, that is terrifying.

***

Two days later, he’s out in the woods, axe in hand. Will finds the tree on the side of a snowy hill, and he chops it down and drags it behind him to the house. Hannibal is waiting for him on the porch, flask of coffee and brandy in hand.

‘You found a nice big one,’ Hannibal says. ‘And a lovely shape. You’ve got a good eye.’

Will searches this simple compliment for a subtext, but he can’t quite find one. Or maybe there are so many that he can’t decide on one. This whole holiday is a subtext, blared over every single car radio and shopping centre speaker from mid-November onwards. Will might not have had many Christmas trees, but he knows all the Christmas songs. _You better watch out, you better not cry. Do they know it’s Christmastime? Peace on earth, goodwill to men._ Two murderers shacked up in a house in the woods.

_Deck the fucking halls._

‘I just happened to see it,’ he says. ‘I thought it would make the house smell good.’

Because dragging a tree half a mile through the woods is just something you happen to do on a whim. Nothing to do with the fact that last night he had a nightmare that he was falling, breath ripped out, blood in ribbons behind him, and before he could scream there was an arm around his waist. Safe, strong, heavy, pulling Will to warm chest, filling his ears with heartbeat and steady breath while he fell asleep again until morning.

Hannibal seems to know when he’s dreaming bad things. A lot of the time, before Will even understands it himself.

_Silent night, holy night._

‘I’ll clear a space for it in front of the windows,’ says Hannibal.

***

‘I found the tree,’ Will says after they’ve got it up. ‘That means I get to make the rules about how to decorate it.’

‘Seems fair enough,’ says Hannibal. He’s lit a fire and they’re standing in front of the tree while snow falls gently outside. The room is full of the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Will is warmed through with coffee and brandy and the way that he and Hannibal work together towards a common goal.

It’s almost romantic.

_Last Christmas, I gave you my heart._

With Hannibal Lecter, that could be literal.

Will clears his throat. ‘No skulls on the tree—human or animal. Including bird skulls. No whole song birds. No random human fingers or whatever. Nothing with a cryptic meaning or an obscure metaphor. No knives, no scalpels, no hypodermic needles, no antlers.’

Hannibal takes a sheet of paper from the shelf. He takes a fountain pen from his pocket and writes all of this down. Which is excessive, really. But that’s Hannibal Lecter for you.

‘You’re writing it down.’

‘It’s our first Christmas together,’ Hannibal replies, still writing. ‘They say that whatever traditions you start on your first Christmas, will carry through to every Christmas afterwards. I want to make sure I get it right.’

There’s a subtext there, for certain. First Christmas. Every Christmas afterwards. Hannibal is planning for the future.

Will clears his throat again. There seems to be a lump there, suddenly.

_I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams._

‘No large stag beetles,’ continues Will, ‘or snails. In fact, let’s just say nothing that used to be alive or part of something that used to be alive.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing that looks anything like a mask from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. No dragons. And…’ He’s run out of things, but he feels as if he needs to assert himself. ‘No plaid.’

Maybe Will isn’t afraid that this is home. They won’t be in this cabin for long, after all. They’ll have to keep moving, one step ahead of the law.

Maybe he’s just afraid that, like all the others, this home won’t last.

 _No plaid_ , Hannibal writes with a flourish. Then he puts down his pen and begins to fold the paper, over and over, keeping the edges knife-crisp.

‘No origami hearts made out of human corpses,’ says Will, quickly. ‘I really never want to see one of those again.’

‘A repetition of that would only be an anticlimax,’ Hannibal agrees. He makes a final fold, and places the small origami star on a branch of the tree. Then he steps back and surveys his handiwork: a big fragrant tree, dragged half a mile through the forest and set up here, holding exactly one star.

_Star of wonder, star of light._

‘One star per year,’ says Hannibal. ‘How many Christmases will it take until we’ve filled an entire tree?’

Will takes Hannibal's hand. Because what’s home, if it’s not wherever you and your loved one happen to be for Christmas?

‘Let’s find out,’ Will says.


End file.
